Remember
by Cantoris
Summary: Sometimes, I think I can almost remember it. His face was familiar to me. Something in the unkempt hair and bitter smile rang in my head like a gong. And I could remember the feel of a stranger holding me, the flash and bang of a gun shot.


Hello, everyone. This is my first CSI:NY fic and I'll admit that I don't know the show as well as I want to. The first episode I saw and was paying attention was the season six finale, so it's no surprise that this is what I wrote. I love Lucy (no pun intended). And I know there is probably no way she would remember that night, but I wrote this anyway. My dad was a cop for 28 years, so the questions mentioned at the beginning are straight from my own childhood, though thankfully with a totally different answer. Enjoy and happy reading.

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Sometimes, I think I can almost remember it. My mom's arms, my dad's hand, a stranger in the night and a shot in the dark. It's not one of those childhood memories that people say they remember only because the story has been told to them so often over the years. I only heard the full story once, and after hearing it, I was able to put some vague memory fragments into context. Other than that, no one talks about it. Not even when I asked.

I hadn't paid a lot of attention to the awards and medals that my parents had earned over their years of service on the force. The handful of certificates and small, gold medals in their shadow boxes were simply a part of the background of my home. It wasn't until junior high when a few of my friends really saw them that they asked me questions and I didn't know the answers.

Oh, the questions had actually been common my whole life. Career day and Parent's day always brought the usual inquiries once everyone realized my parents were detectives.

Do they have guns? Do they have badges?

Can we see them? Are they real?

Have they ever shot anyone?

That last question was always hard. I asked my dad over breakfast once when I was little. He said yes and that he never wanted to do so again but would if he had to. I asked my mom after she picked me up from dance class. She said yes and that she hoped she never had to again. As a child, I left it at that.

So after learning that the gold medallions actually meant something in my early teen years, I asked what each one was for and for which parent. There was only one that remained a mystery and it was my mom's.

Dad had been talking me through every single one, seeing as he knew my mom's career and highlights as well, and sometimes better, than his own. I had thought he had forgotten and skipped over one.

"What about that one, Dad?"

It looked the same as the others. It certainly wasn't the largest or most elaborate or decorated. Dad stared off into space for a long moment and took very deep breath before speaking.

"Your mom got that one after she shot and killed a serial killer. Don't ask her about it, though, 'cause she doesn't like to talk about it."

On that day, I obeyed my dad. But like any child who had detectives for parents, I decided that I needed more information. More evidence.

To put off talking to my mom, I waited until I was at the crime lab waiting for a ride home before hunting down my godfather, Mac. He always said that I had my father's sense of tact, which is like saying no sense of it at all.

"Why doesn't Mom like to talk about the medal she got for the serial killer she shot?"

Mac was always serious and strict. Everyone said so. My whole life I knew that he didn't smile at a lot of things, but he always managed to smile at me. Mom said I brought out the softie in him. But when I was seated in his office and asking that question, he was grim faced as I had never seen him before. Kind of like my dad, Mac looked at me like he would stare right through me and released his breath before answering. It wasn't much more than what Dad had told me.

"There was a serial killer that had escaped from prison. Your mom shot him and he died later on. The medal was for protecting the city."

When he said that, I could swear that there was more to it. There was something about protection. But before I could ask more, Mac said one final thing on the subject. "It's sensitive for your mom."

I let it lie for a few years. At least when it came to talking to other people. I turned my investigative skills toward the Internet, looking up old news articles online to at least get a name. There was a date on the medal which narrowed down the year for me and it was as simple as searching for serial killers in New York in that year. Finally, I had a name.

Shane Casey.

His face was familiar to me. Something in the unkempt hair and bitter smile rang in my head like a gong. I could suddenly feel my mom's arms around me, tense and tight. I could feel my dad's lips and hand as he kissed and cupped my head. And I could remember the feel of a stranger holding me, the flash and bang of a gun shot and then my dad's embrace like a sudden shelter from a storm.

Searching for articles about Shane Casey brought me to the beginning of his story and a great deal of confusion for me. My dad was the one mentioned as bringing Shane Casey in after the altercation at the bar. When he escaped, I read that it had been my dad's shield he'd stolen. Then there was a single and final article that he had been shot and killed by my mom, but no other details.

Finally, on a night when Mom and I were home alone, I asked her.

"What happened with Shane Casey?"

She didn't ask how I knew that name. She didn't put me off and say she didn't want to talk about it. She didn't stare off into space or look right through me. Mom looked me in the eye and said, "I shot him to protect you."

I had never, ever doubted my parent's love for me. Not once in my whole life. Hearing those words out of my mom's mouth was almost confirmation for me more than anything else.

We never spoke of it again. If any friends ever asked about the medals, I told the bare truth and nothing more. But the words stayed with me.

I shot him to protect you.

Sometimes, I feel like I remember it so clearly. My dad placing me in Mom's arms and hurrying down the lighthouse stairs. Mom and Dad, locking arms around each other, nearly crushing me between them. And later, Shane Casey plucking me up from my crib and taunting Dad. Mom's level gaze, gun aimed at both of us. A _crack_ sound over my screams and Dad rushing to catch me. Being safe in my parent's arms once again.

It's a story I only heard once. But I remember.


End file.
